Fanfic: "Allowances" [Implied Phoenix/Edgeworth; Franziska]
A fic approaches; command?; etc, etc, etc.
Strongly implied Phoenix/Edgeworth. Waiting for Edgeworth to return from overseas, Phoenix encounters Franziska, and they struggle to establish their respective boundaries regarding the man at the center of both of their lives.
Any comments or criticism deeply appreciated, as always. And a huge thank you to cftf and musouka_manga for their support and feedback.
Allowances
Phoenix had a sinking feeling that it was a mistake to come here like this in the first place.
The Los Angeles airport was bustling with activity; Miles had, of course, found it necessary to plan his arrival to take place during the holiday season, when everyone and their grandmothers were trying to fly out to see any potential combination of friends and family. Not that the holidays in themselves were sufficient to sway Miles into coming back to visit; he had been quite adamant over the phone that it was a strictly business-related matter. An investigation he had been checking into overseas made it necessary for him to look through some of his mentor’s old records. Obviously, his time couldn’t be occupied with pointless endeavors when he had serious work to get done, lest certain people get ideas.
Phoenix wondered, not for the first and not for the last time, why the man couldn’t just admit that he was looking forward to seeing him.
It’s the least he could do, he thought, grimacing as another passerby swung their luggage against his ankles. He’d had a hell of a time getting to the airport in the first place, of course, and once actually arriving had managed to prompt rude gestures from at least four people he’d managed to offend by stepping on their bodily appendages. Nevermind the array of bruises gathering on his own legs, or the fact that he’d had to backtrack across the whole damn airport to retrieve his attorney’s badge.
But he supposed there wasn’t much point in grousing. His valiant struggles had landed him here--firmly planted in a worn seat in the waiting area, watching the clouds gather beyond the window glass of the airport, keeping his eyes peeled on the luminescent schedule posted on the far wall to compare to his own means of timekeeping.
Namely, his watch. Phoenix checked it once again. There was another hour before the plane was scheduled to land, barring any complications. He sighed and let his head drape over the back of his chair, letting his line of vision drift across the hallway, trying to internally calculate his chances of getting robbed blind were he to allow himself to doze off for a bit to pass the time.
His line of sight slid to the furthest wall, increasingly lethargic--but his focus returned in full force he nearly tumbled out of his seat with an alarmed yelp.
Across the waiting area from him, instantly recognizable--doesn’t anyone in that family have any concept of an informal wardrobe?!--fingers tapping impatiently against the length of a familiar leather whip, stood the woman who had successfully made a full year of Phoenix’s career a living hell: Franziska von Karma. Miles’s foster sister.
He was unable to stop staring, flabbergasted, even after regaining his balance in a show of briefly flailing limbs. She stood out unmistakably from the crowd swarming around her and past her, even with the matter of her signature assault weapon aside. Even beyond that and her unusual clothes, it was the shameless air of smug superiority that stood out most--the superiority that had made him want to strangle himself multiple times in frustration when facing her down in court.
As he began to recover from his initial shock, he realized there was only one reason she could be at this particular place at this particular time.
But what’s she doing here in the first place? Isn’t she supposed to be in Germany?
If Phoenix was not set on figuring out a way to render her presence paradoxical and therefore non-existent, it would have likely clicked with him that Miles wanted her involvement in looking through Manfred von Karma’s old files. That beyond any formal business, it would be a way of settling the past for both of them. It was the sort of thing he would have normally been able to count himself on being able to read on Miles’s part.
But any threads slowly connecting towards this understanding, however, were squarely disrupted as Franziska’s gaze drifted slowly, inexorably, unmistakably, from the windows and the foolishly foolish fools wandering beyond them, squarely onto his person.
Ack!
Her eyes narrowed--Phoenix was keenly and painfully familiar with that as a warning signal, more than anything--and her shoulders retracted from where they were pressed against the wall to begin approaching him in her usual regal stride, fingering the loose strands of the whip.
Phoenix shifted his weight. He polished his watch. He tried counting the holes in the ceiling. He had a sudden feeling of kinship with every animal who had to watch their predators make their fatal, sadistic march towards their prone victims.
“Mr. Phoenix Wright.” The crisp, accented voice fell upon him like an executioner’s axe. “So we meet again.”
She has to just walk right up to me and start something, of course. Of course. Why couldn’t she have been avoidant and wishy-washy like some other girls her age?
“Yeah,” he said, “It looks like it. Long time no see, uh,” he stumbled briefly over how to address her, then, tentative, “Franziska.”
Franziska snorted, propping one hand against her hip, looking down at him as though he were so much garbage. Phoenix suppressed a sigh. He was beginning to think mastery of that smirk was in-born and nothing less than certifiably genetic.
“So,” she said, “What could bring a person of your foolish disposition to a place like this?”
What kind of question is that? You know as well as I do--there’s only one reason…
“Same thing bringing everyone else here,” he said pointedly, with a tip of the head in her direction. “Tis the season, and all that, isn’t it?”
“How quaint.” She tossed her head scornfully. “Just like you to conform to the frivolous indulgences fabricated by this pathetic society of fools.”
Yep. Same as always. Hasn’t even bothered expanding that vocabulary of hers.
Another glance to the watch. Fifty-six minutes remaining. If there were any mercy in this world, Miles’s plane should be gaining an inexplicable burst of haste that would bring the sight of his landing any minute now, relieving him of the responsibility of further entertaining this particular choice in company.
“Well, you must be waiting here for Miles, too, aren’t you? So we’re pretty much in the same boat.”
Her eyes flashed oddly at the casual use of Miles’s given name, though it passed so quickly that Phoenix wondered if he had only imagined it. Doubtful. “Hardly,” she answered, coolly inspecting the back of her gloves, an obvious indicator that they were of much greater interest than he. “Unlike you, neither Miles nor I can afford to waste our time or effort in sentimental frivolities. Naturally, he needs my assistance while staying in his pathetic excuse of a country. I’m here on his request.”
Phoenix had been mentally forming a casual retort for most of her reply, but he found that it had suddenly died before it could pass his lips. He could not fully explain it, but something had clenched uncomfortably in his stomach at that last proclamation.
He found he had a sudden need to--pay a visit to the bathroom, go shopping or eating or something, to avoid engaging in further conversation with this woman. And even inexplicable twists of emotion aside, he knew from raw and often painful experience that any attempts to keep going down this road would likely end in blood and tears. He stood up.
“And just where do you think you’re going?” There was a thrill in her voice; a predator who had detected the first hints of weakness in her prey. He ignored it.
“On a walk. My legs are stiff.” He stretched exaggeratedly to emphasize the point. “I have been sitting here the last couple of hours, you know, and was stuck being thrown between our delightful public transit system before that.”
“You poor thing,” Franziska sneered. “How the effort of sitting and lazing about must have been a drain on your reserve of energy.”
“What can I say?” He glanced at her with raised eyebrows. “At least where I’m from, in case something happens to someone you care about, it’s considered courtesy to, well, be there.”
Four years of being there.
Phoenix turned suddenly--her terse reply slid meaninglessly across his ears--and walked away from her.
It was silly, he thought--silly to be worrying about something as ridiculous as this, but the further he drew away from her and into his own thoughts he could not escape the fact that it stung, somehow, that Miles had apparently seen fit to ask for her presence to greet him, and not his. The childish frustration of it wrenched uncomfortably across his joints, and he turned in aimless circles and aimless corners across the airport, trying to excise the tension of it from his system.
Miles hadn’t been back in months--and even then, he was always busy, always with some legal document in his hands and occupied in some form of work as they exchanged quick words on the phone. As though what they had told each other before that most recent departure, in a series of awkward starts and stops that had felt like swallowing so much glass--but it had been worth it, hadn’t it, because I--had never happened.
He sighed internally. Walking wasn’t cutting it, clearly, as far as setting him at ease went. He glanced around, trying to work out where he had landed himself, and realized he was standing outside of a souvenir shop. It seemed as good a distraction as any, and with Miles returning…
Phoenix exhaled slowly, looking up at the neon sign bearing the name of the store, and felt a welcome wave of calm slowly begin to wash over him. Right. It didn’t matter what Miles seemed to have no time for him more often that not, that he was the one who always had to reach out, making the phone calls, writing the e-mails--or that there was apparently someone else that Miles was willing to reach out towards, when the effort couldn’t be spared for him. It was all irrelevant. The important thing was that he was returning soon, today, regardless of whether Franziska von Karma was here to intrude on that or not.
“Intrude”? He paused in mid-step, and an elderly lady collided with his back, squawking indignantly. He paid no attention to her. Just what am I thinking? What am I, a jealous high school girl? Get a grip, Phoenix.
He shook his head, marveling at his own apparent absurdity, and entered the establishment.
The gift shop was a quaint little place, stocked with the standard variety of overpriced airport market fare. Phoenix let his eyes wander idly over rows of stacked candies, the racks of tourists’ clothes, the stuffed animals with hearts painted on their stomachs--Miles would probably hit me in the face if I dared, no matter how priceless it might be--and wandered until his feet gave pause before a shelf bearing a small selection of action figures and other assorted television memorabilia. Naturally, the most popular children’s hero of the age amongst them.
The models of the Steel Samurai themselves were identical to each other; they differed in color and in the signs attached proudly to their raised left hands, for a variety of occasions. Happy Birthday. Get Well Soon. Cheering For You. Welcome Back. Welcome Home.
If Maya were here, she’d be going into seizures right now. And make me buy them all while she was at it.
He smiled internally at that. Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his coat, he could hear her voice ringing out next to him in perfect clarity in spite of her absence: We obviously need to be prepared for all occasions, Nick! They say good PR is the key to operating a successful law firm, you know? And nobody offers better PR than the hero of Neo Olde Tokyo!
Phoenix shook his head again. Maya’s verdict was basically a given. And he knew that for some reason, Miles held similar fondness for the heroic presence of the Steel Samurai, though he tried to keep it muted in public for the sake of his dignity--which was frankly even more incomprehensible than the Fey clan’s collective brand of obsession. Still, as far as gifts went, it was difficult for him to forget the particular glimmer in his eyes--that he had never seen before and had since never managed to recapture--when Maya had shoved her Limited Edition Complete Series Collection against his chest.
Come to think of it, the feeling back then had been similar to the feeling he still hadn’t succeeded in completely alleviating now.
He frowned, inspecting the selection again, and tugged forward the two that offered the variation in greetings of Welcome. His hand lingered between the two figures, and he furrowed his brow, briefly--before decisively closing his fingers around the one with the sign that bore Home.
He found it more depressing than anything that he could probably list off a dozen of the little figure’s signature attacks, courtesy of Maya and her weekend marathons. After making the purchase, he fiddled with its miniature arms, adjusting the spear to a more dashing sort of battle stance--the sort that he imagined would meet her high standards--before shoving it back into the plastic bag next to the receipt.
The voice behind him rang out like a gunshot. “And what is that supposed to be?”
Phoenix turned, and jumped at the sheer proximity of her angry scowl. She followed me into the store? Oh, give me a--
He forced himself to calm down. It would not do to have himself landed with a bill for whip-destroyed merchandise on top of everything else by deliberately escalating this confrontation.
“It’s a homecoming gift,” he explained, tersely, slowly, as though she were a child slow on the uptake. The corners of her mouth twitched. “You know. The kind people give others as a welcoming present. We do that. It’s the nice thing to do.”
The bag fell from where it hung over his elbow as the crack of the whip sliced through its handles. Phoenix barely managed to catch it before it hit the floor and under the feet of a stampede of harassed travelers. The shopkeeper squealed and ducked from the force of it, despite being clear on the other side of the room.
“Ridiculous,” Franziska said, the ends of the whip stretched between both hands. “You’re a more pathetic man than even I had presumed you to be, Mr. Phoenix Wright. If you want to buy yourself toys to play with, keep them to yourself, rather than forcing on those better off left alone from your childish endeavors!”
“My childish--hey, I don’t even like the show, I was just--it’s Miles who--”
She cut him off with another crack of the whip. He flinched back. That one had struck dangerously close to his face--he was pushing his luck as it is, he could see, simply by existing. When it came to Franziska von Karma, this was not exactly without precedent.
“Just how old do you think he is?” she asked. “Nine?”
Miles, no. Certain other people, on the other hand…
He sighed, straightened, and ran his fingers through his hair as she continued to rant. Maybe if he walked fast enough, he could lose her--no, he was fooling himself. She’d gone through the trouble of tracking him across countries when she had taken issue with him before, so a crowded airport probably wasn’t even worth considering an obstacle. When Maya thought he was implicitly betraying the honor of the Steel Samurai, or something similar, he found he could usually make it through intact by nodding and pretending to pay attention while actually musing about the dynamics of the Union Jack or something comparatively fascinating--but he had a sinking feeling the girl next to him now would not fall for the same trick.
He strode out of the store, considering his options--Franziska’s voice still harping on at his back regarding his clear belittlement of her brother and how he was shamelessly encouraging his vices--and figured if nothing else surely she would lose her voice from the sheer volume of yammering eventually. If he could just manage the endurance to wait it out. He didn't bother getting his hopes up.
---
Twenty-two minutes, fourteen seconds later:
This is ridiculous.
The shopping bag was tucked safely under Phoenix’s arm as he leaned against the wall--during his excursion someone had jumped upon the chance to occupy his empty chair. He had a magazine open in front of his face--he’d grabbed it from a stand without really bothering to check its cover and found himself reviewing an assortment of makeup brands and glittering fashion accessories--but it wasn’t like he could have read it anyway, given the nonstop din next to his ear. Something about fools and immaturity and the mentally challenged and a nineteen year old girl’s desperate, desperate and very apparent need for a thesaurus.
He turned a page of the magazine.
One gloved hand, apparently fed up with his stonewalling (twenty-three minutes and counting), slammed against the wall to the side of his head, and the other gripped tightly around his forearm, preventing him from further escape--whether through movement or the distractions of women’s fashion. Phoenix grit his teeth, resisting the urge to lift the magazine as a physical barrier between both of their faces.
“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, Mr. Phoenix Wright! I’m not done with our conversation!”
Oh, but trust me, I am.
“Okay.” Let’s review what we’ve established through this little talk. “So we’ve established that my tastes are horrible, I understand, I get it. The words, I comprehend them.” He met her gaze for the first time since he had left the store. “He can tell me himself how awful it is and throw it away at first chance he gets. So why don’t you get him one of your own, since you’re such an expert on what’s best for him?”
She went very quiet all of a sudden, her bangs falling over her eyes as momentarily she bowed her head. Phoenix might have been relieved if her grip around his arm didn’t suddenly become vice-like. When she spoke again, her voice was very low, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
“You said something earlier,” she said, “about ‘being there’. As though you were under the impression that this made you better. Didn’t you, Mr. Phoenix Wright. I heard you correctly, didn’t I.”
“Did I?” he said. It took some effort to make himself sound noncommittal. He just wanted feeling back in his arm. The pins and needles were really starting to get to him. “I don’t really remember.”
“How laughable.” Her lip curled. “How pathetic.”
“Yeah,” he said, and now he could no longer suppress the irritation from seeping into his voice--the insults weren’t anything he wasn‘t able to deal with, especially from Franziska von Karma, but the sheer repetition was getting to remind him somewhat of the singular experience of repeatedly smashing his head against a layer of solid brick wall. “That’s me, all right.” Now can we move on?
“Are you that blind? Must I spell it out for you, so it sinks into that thick head of yours? You are the problem,” she said, and Phoenix got the feeling that she had been waiting to tell him this for a long, long time. “You always were. This juvenile little trinket of yours does so much to prove my point. What he needs now is not these ridiculous distractions. This is not all there is, you’re perfectly aware. The phone calls. The letters. You hang onto him when you know full well he has better things to commit his time and attention towards. But it’s always been that way, hasn’t it? For all you claim to care, one would think you would respect him enough to honor his dedication towards upholding the perfection in his work.”
And we’re back to ‘perfection’, are we. I don’t think I’ve ever hated a word and everything it represented more in my life.
But she wasn’t really talking to a person named Phoenix Wright anymore. That much was obvious.
“Look,” he said. “I trust Miles. If I was as much of a bother to him as you seem to think I am, he would let me know.” He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to add it, but he did: “And Miles trusts me, too.”
“Misplaced trust, I’d say.”
At least she doesn’t deny it. That’s a step up, I suppose.
“I guess,” he said, flat, “that you’re entitled to your opinion.”
“My opinion?” She sounded outright offended, as though he had dared to fling the filthiest of curses imaginable at her. The absurdity of this encounter--all over a tiny plastic model of the Steel Samurai--struck Phoenix, and he bit back the urge to laugh, as he suspected it would have been a fatal mistake. “Do you know who I am, Mr. Phoenix Wright? Miles Edgeworth is my little brother! I am entitled to speak on what is best from him. I’m the one who knows him best of anyone.”
Phoenix stopped, staring at her in disbelief. If he wasn’t in quite a degree of pain, he was fairly certain his jaw would have fallen open at the sheer audacity of what she just said.
Does she even know what she’s saying? There’s no way.
Every sensible cell in his body told him to let it go, that there would be no swaying her from her apparent delusion--but he spoke anyway. Something in him was not willing to let this, amongst every other accusation and insult and entitlement she had hurled at him, go.
“Even if you say that, you didn’t know him back then, though.” It was a plain statement of fact. “Before he moved in with you and your father. What he was like before--who he really is.” He paused. “Maybe you ought to give more consideration to that and what Miles wants, not what you think he should want.”
He could tell immediately that he had stepped on a landmine. Her eyes widened, the narrowed into slits--she stepped back, releasing him, and her hand flew to her side where her whip was holstered.
He expected the crack of the whip against his face and he threw his hands in front of him defensively, squeezing his eyes shut. A moment passed, however, and he tentatively opened one to find that she had flung the familiar weapon to the ground at his feet in rage, face flushed, strands of gray hair strewn about her face.
“What do you know?” she demanded, and there was a tremor in her voice Phoenix could not remember hearing since the conclusion of Matt Engarde’s trial. “You think you’re one to talk about who he really is? Tell me, then, Mr. Phoenix Wright! What do you know about Miles Edgeworth, or about me, for that matter, since you’re such an apparent authority on the subject? For all your talk--you weren’t there!”
She was outright shouting now, all pretenses of restraint lost. They were attracting stares from passerbys, and Phoenix swallowed, glancing around at the movement of turning heads, but Franziska stepped on his foot, bringing his full attention back squarely on her.
“If this trust between you means so much,” she continued, “where were you? Where were you when Papa barred us from meals for so much as a single error in our work? Where we you in the sleepless nights memorizing line by exact line of our lessons? Where were you every time I was the one who had to bring him back to his senses every time an earthquake struck around us? Well, Mr. Phoenix Wright? Answer me!” She slammed the flat of her hand against the wall again. The impact of it rung out against his ear. “Answer!”
He answered in stunned silence.
Phoenix found himself wishing that she had just stuck with the whip. It would have stung far less.
It was true that Miles had never opted to share much of his years in the von Karma household with him. He could remember trying to bring it up only once or twice--and quickly dropped the subject when Miles had unequivocally, and immediately, shut him out. It was a period of his life that Phoenix could only define to himself in conjecture. But nonetheless, this--
“The answer,” she continued, and her eyes bore into his, “is that you weren’t. Who Miles is? What he really wants? Don’t make me laugh. You’re as ignorant of any of those things as any of these foolish simpletons passing us by in this airport. You were never there. Not when it really mattered.”
His mind raced, frozen, sick--it wasn’t my fault, how could you possibly blame me for--I’ve always done whatever I could. There wasn’t any…
She stared at him, livid, a sick triumph captured in the trembling of her lower lip and the glassy sheen about her eyes that reflected his own stunned expression back at him. It made him nauseous to look at. He pushed her back, finally giving himself room to move and breathe.
“You know what?” he said, finally. “Fine.”
He pulled the present out of the bag in disgust, hurled it down the nearest garbage can, and walked away, from it and from her, not looking back. There was no point.
---
Though she had marked herself triumphant, Franziska von Karma found little to savor in her victory over Phoenix Wright, who had blended into the crowd to sulk alone. Something about it tasted bitter and ashen in her mouth.
Her throat still burned, and not just from the strain of yelling and lecturing at a mentally challenged man for the past thirty minutes. She bent over and picked up her whip where she had thrown it, grateful that the bustle of the crowd--dissolving around her once again now that the dispute had been settled--was more than enough to cover up the sound of a single sniff amongst hundreds of other meaningless noises.
She pulled herself back up by bracing her hands against the open garbage can Phoenix Wright had tossed the ridiculous action figure down, where it was already stained with mustard and other condiments from discarded foodstuffs. The sign of Welcome Home was obscured by a plastic wrapper. Franziska could not help but be pulled in by the gravity of it; her line of sight drawn down to its crude, grotesquely colored shape.
It was a joke; a blatant exercise in the cheapest and most base of craftsmanship. She could see where the paint was chipping from the uniform, the way the spear was imperfectly aligned with the body. To offer it in earnest to anyone would have been an insult.
But amongst all of those imperfections, she could also still see the ribbon it had been haphazardly wrapped in--bright red and strewn over the edge of the canister, brushing against the sides of her thumbs.
She exhaled, slowly. Her head was beginning to clear from the fury Phoenix Wright had brought--as he always did--onto her senses.
It would have been all right; she would have remained secure in her own self-righteousness, if not for the red and everything it represented in her memory.
--letters stacks of them tied together with red string--string fragile and yet a connection to the outside she had never had how she had hated him for it how she wished he would just throw them all away but he never did how close she had come to sneaking into his room to burn them all herself--
And she knew, now, who had been responsible.
--lingering over each of them opening them closing them looking to the outside wondering about the someone waiting and trying and reaching she saw him smile a smile he had never smiled for her it was different and she hated it and hated herself for being glad when he denied them no matter how they made him smile and sealed them together away from him away from her in red--
Setting them aside, pushing them away, erasing that hint of a nostalgic smile. Because surely he would give up by the next week. By the next. By the next. The stacks continued to grow, matching futility with futility.
She knew what she had said was true. Phoenix Wright, no matter how he tried, no matter what he tried to tell himself, had never been there.
But there were so many times when she had wondered if Miles Edgeworth had ever truly been there, either. When she wondered about the gaps left behind as he tossed away every token his old friend had sent and pretended that they hadn’t mattered to him.
Her fists clenched, trying, once again, to relocate Phoenix Wright.
It felt as though it was the only thing she had ever done, for as long as she had known and tried to play big sister to Miles.
I hate it.
She hated him for being able to walk into the store without shame and purchase such a silly trinket. As though it were so easy. It was infuriating--as infuriating as reading the letters containing the words and sentiments of concern and love she was never able to form herself, obscured by pride and the lingering rules of what it meant to be a von Karma.
She hated him for being able to arrive early and wait, for hours, even when Miles Edgeworth had failed to explicitly ask him to. As though it were the most natural thing in the world. As though it was simply what was done.
And she hated him for being swayed, so easily, as easily as shattering glass, into thinking none of those things mattered.
Franziska cursed under her breath, bitter and full of hate, brimming with it--as she cut through the crowd in search of him, wiping the mustard stain off of the sleeve she had used to reach back into the garbage can.
---
Phoenix had settled back against the wall closest to the glowing schedule. He glanced back at it--habit, by now, and refreshing in its relative solitude--and blinked to realize that Miles’s plane was scheduled to come in at any minute now. The entirety of the remaining hour had somehow slipped by in his flurry of anger and hurt and he hadn’t even noticed it. The numbers seemed strangely blurry, under the force of the pounding headache he had been nursing since he had left Franziska.
Stupid. I should never have risen to her bait.
He closed his eyes, pressing the palms of his left hand against his temple. It wasn’t too late; he thought, Miles had not arrived yet and he could still turn around and leave this airport, call Larry or someone else to take him home, and save himself the trouble of justifying his extraneous presence. It wasn’t as though he was needed.
His thoughts kept coming back to that in spite of his best efforts, and it surrounded him in a despairing sort of haze. But somehow, he still found himself disinclined to leave--even after everything--even knowing full well how foolish it was.
Because when it came down to everything---
I still want to see him.
His eyes widened at the burst of sound that disrupted his rambling thoughts; a cellphone was ringing at his side. It was drawn from his pocket and thrown against his ear like a trained reflex.
“Miles! Are you there?”
Silence. Not even a ringtone. He blinked, shaking his phone, tapping the screen with his curled index finger--don’t tell me the stupid thing’s busted again--when he heard Franziska’s voice next to him, speaking matter-of-factly into her own phone.
“I see. Yes. I’m waiting outside. Hurry up; I’m quite sick of waiting with this crowd of fools as it is.”
Realization slowly dawned upon Phoenix, and he pocketed his phone in an embarrassed silence. The ringtone hadn’t even been his; Franziska likely wouldn’t be caught dead with the Steel Samurai theme song associated with any of her possessions--and he had still jumped on it like a dog chasing its own tail. Like so many other things.
But he had to admit to himself that there was a bitter disappointment blooming in his chest alongside his self-conscious realization of his own foolishness. It was stupid, he knew, Miles couldn’t have known that Phoenix had maneuvered his way through three different bus routes and fought his way through holiday crowds and spent money he frankly couldn’t afford on an overpriced homecoming gift, waiting alongside his precious sister and having stupid arguments about who knew him better and who had the right to have a say over what he wanted.
But he couldn’t help but feel that a choice had just been made, regardless.
But it makes sense, doesn’t it.
He stepped back.
Franziska eyed him, closing her phone with a decisive snap. Her mouth was drawn in a thin, questioning line. Behind her, Phoenix saw that waves of people were beginning to emerge, exhausted and blinking sleepily from the long flight.
“What are you waiting for?” Phoenix had meant for the words to sound indifferent, but they sounded small and petty even to his own ears. “Didn’t you say you’d waited long enough?”
Four years of waiting. No. Fifteen. More than that…
Maybe I’ve spent my whole life waiting.
She snorted disdainfully with a roll of her eyes, and turned her back to him to take several decisive steps forward. He lost sight of her quickly in the crowd, and found he lacked any particular desire to catch a good view of the teary union between siblings anyway. It was, after all, something he could never really understand and hadn’t ever been a part of.
But he gave a yelp when he felt fingers clamp like steel along his wrist, nearly tripping over himself as he was pulled forward; Franziska’s eyes flashed dangerously and bid him to keep his mouth shut lest he suffer pain. He felt her slip something in his hands, but he didn’t bother looking down to see what it was; as she dragged him along, Phoenix had given a start in realization--he thought he might have caught sight of Miles’s back, beyond her small frame, half-turned away from them with unmistakable pink--who else would have the damn thing in pink?--suitcase at his side.
“Stupid, hopeless fool,” Franziska snapped, and Phoenix winced as she backhanded him for his perceived lack of cooperation, making his movements clumsy and his feet slower than her standards allowed. His fingers tightened around whatever she had given him, and vaguely realized he could feel the engraved letters of home pressed against his skin.
But he was still absorbed in watching Miles, who turned, and raised his hand with a mildly surprised sort of half-smile as they both moved closer to greet him together.
Strongly implied Phoenix/Edgeworth. Waiting for Edgeworth to return from overseas, Phoenix encounters Franziska, and they struggle to establish their respective boundaries regarding the man at the center of both of their lives.
Any comments or criticism deeply appreciated, as always. And a huge thank you to cftf and musouka_manga for their support and feedback.
Allowances
Phoenix had a sinking feeling that it was a mistake to come here like this in the first place.
The Los Angeles airport was bustling with activity; Miles had, of course, found it necessary to plan his arrival to take place during the holiday season, when everyone and their grandmothers were trying to fly out to see any potential combination of friends and family. Not that the holidays in themselves were sufficient to sway Miles into coming back to visit; he had been quite adamant over the phone that it was a strictly business-related matter. An investigation he had been checking into overseas made it necessary for him to look through some of his mentor’s old records. Obviously, his time couldn’t be occupied with pointless endeavors when he had serious work to get done, lest certain people get ideas.
Phoenix wondered, not for the first and not for the last time, why the man couldn’t just admit that he was looking forward to seeing him.
It’s the least he could do, he thought, grimacing as another passerby swung their luggage against his ankles. He’d had a hell of a time getting to the airport in the first place, of course, and once actually arriving had managed to prompt rude gestures from at least four people he’d managed to offend by stepping on their bodily appendages. Nevermind the array of bruises gathering on his own legs, or the fact that he’d had to backtrack across the whole damn airport to retrieve his attorney’s badge.
But he supposed there wasn’t much point in grousing. His valiant struggles had landed him here--firmly planted in a worn seat in the waiting area, watching the clouds gather beyond the window glass of the airport, keeping his eyes peeled on the luminescent schedule posted on the far wall to compare to his own means of timekeeping.
Namely, his watch. Phoenix checked it once again. There was another hour before the plane was scheduled to land, barring any complications. He sighed and let his head drape over the back of his chair, letting his line of vision drift across the hallway, trying to internally calculate his chances of getting robbed blind were he to allow himself to doze off for a bit to pass the time.
His line of sight slid to the furthest wall, increasingly lethargic--but his focus returned in full force he nearly tumbled out of his seat with an alarmed yelp.
Across the waiting area from him, instantly recognizable--doesn’t anyone in that family have any concept of an informal wardrobe?!--fingers tapping impatiently against the length of a familiar leather whip, stood the woman who had successfully made a full year of Phoenix’s career a living hell: Franziska von Karma. Miles’s foster sister.
He was unable to stop staring, flabbergasted, even after regaining his balance in a show of briefly flailing limbs. She stood out unmistakably from the crowd swarming around her and past her, even with the matter of her signature assault weapon aside. Even beyond that and her unusual clothes, it was the shameless air of smug superiority that stood out most--the superiority that had made him want to strangle himself multiple times in frustration when facing her down in court.
As he began to recover from his initial shock, he realized there was only one reason she could be at this particular place at this particular time.
But what’s she doing here in the first place? Isn’t she supposed to be in Germany?
If Phoenix was not set on figuring out a way to render her presence paradoxical and therefore non-existent, it would have likely clicked with him that Miles wanted her involvement in looking through Manfred von Karma’s old files. That beyond any formal business, it would be a way of settling the past for both of them. It was the sort of thing he would have normally been able to count himself on being able to read on Miles’s part.
But any threads slowly connecting towards this understanding, however, were squarely disrupted as Franziska’s gaze drifted slowly, inexorably, unmistakably, from the windows and the foolishly foolish fools wandering beyond them, squarely onto his person.
Ack!
Her eyes narrowed--Phoenix was keenly and painfully familiar with that as a warning signal, more than anything--and her shoulders retracted from where they were pressed against the wall to begin approaching him in her usual regal stride, fingering the loose strands of the whip.
Phoenix shifted his weight. He polished his watch. He tried counting the holes in the ceiling. He had a sudden feeling of kinship with every animal who had to watch their predators make their fatal, sadistic march towards their prone victims.
“Mr. Phoenix Wright.” The crisp, accented voice fell upon him like an executioner’s axe. “So we meet again.”
She has to just walk right up to me and start something, of course. Of course. Why couldn’t she have been avoidant and wishy-washy like some other girls her age?
“Yeah,” he said, “It looks like it. Long time no see, uh,” he stumbled briefly over how to address her, then, tentative, “Franziska.”
Franziska snorted, propping one hand against her hip, looking down at him as though he were so much garbage. Phoenix suppressed a sigh. He was beginning to think mastery of that smirk was in-born and nothing less than certifiably genetic.
“So,” she said, “What could bring a person of your foolish disposition to a place like this?”
What kind of question is that? You know as well as I do--there’s only one reason…
“Same thing bringing everyone else here,” he said pointedly, with a tip of the head in her direction. “Tis the season, and all that, isn’t it?”
“How quaint.” She tossed her head scornfully. “Just like you to conform to the frivolous indulgences fabricated by this pathetic society of fools.”
Yep. Same as always. Hasn’t even bothered expanding that vocabulary of hers.
Another glance to the watch. Fifty-six minutes remaining. If there were any mercy in this world, Miles’s plane should be gaining an inexplicable burst of haste that would bring the sight of his landing any minute now, relieving him of the responsibility of further entertaining this particular choice in company.
“Well, you must be waiting here for Miles, too, aren’t you? So we’re pretty much in the same boat.”
Her eyes flashed oddly at the casual use of Miles’s given name, though it passed so quickly that Phoenix wondered if he had only imagined it. Doubtful. “Hardly,” she answered, coolly inspecting the back of her gloves, an obvious indicator that they were of much greater interest than he. “Unlike you, neither Miles nor I can afford to waste our time or effort in sentimental frivolities. Naturally, he needs my assistance while staying in his pathetic excuse of a country. I’m here on his request.”
Phoenix had been mentally forming a casual retort for most of her reply, but he found that it had suddenly died before it could pass his lips. He could not fully explain it, but something had clenched uncomfortably in his stomach at that last proclamation.
He found he had a sudden need to--pay a visit to the bathroom, go shopping or eating or something, to avoid engaging in further conversation with this woman. And even inexplicable twists of emotion aside, he knew from raw and often painful experience that any attempts to keep going down this road would likely end in blood and tears. He stood up.
“And just where do you think you’re going?” There was a thrill in her voice; a predator who had detected the first hints of weakness in her prey. He ignored it.
“On a walk. My legs are stiff.” He stretched exaggeratedly to emphasize the point. “I have been sitting here the last couple of hours, you know, and was stuck being thrown between our delightful public transit system before that.”
“You poor thing,” Franziska sneered. “How the effort of sitting and lazing about must have been a drain on your reserve of energy.”
“What can I say?” He glanced at her with raised eyebrows. “At least where I’m from, in case something happens to someone you care about, it’s considered courtesy to, well, be there.”
Four years of being there.
Phoenix turned suddenly--her terse reply slid meaninglessly across his ears--and walked away from her.
It was silly, he thought--silly to be worrying about something as ridiculous as this, but the further he drew away from her and into his own thoughts he could not escape the fact that it stung, somehow, that Miles had apparently seen fit to ask for her presence to greet him, and not his. The childish frustration of it wrenched uncomfortably across his joints, and he turned in aimless circles and aimless corners across the airport, trying to excise the tension of it from his system.
Miles hadn’t been back in months--and even then, he was always busy, always with some legal document in his hands and occupied in some form of work as they exchanged quick words on the phone. As though what they had told each other before that most recent departure, in a series of awkward starts and stops that had felt like swallowing so much glass--but it had been worth it, hadn’t it, because I--had never happened.
He sighed internally. Walking wasn’t cutting it, clearly, as far as setting him at ease went. He glanced around, trying to work out where he had landed himself, and realized he was standing outside of a souvenir shop. It seemed as good a distraction as any, and with Miles returning…
Phoenix exhaled slowly, looking up at the neon sign bearing the name of the store, and felt a welcome wave of calm slowly begin to wash over him. Right. It didn’t matter what Miles seemed to have no time for him more often that not, that he was the one who always had to reach out, making the phone calls, writing the e-mails--or that there was apparently someone else that Miles was willing to reach out towards, when the effort couldn’t be spared for him. It was all irrelevant. The important thing was that he was returning soon, today, regardless of whether Franziska von Karma was here to intrude on that or not.
“Intrude”? He paused in mid-step, and an elderly lady collided with his back, squawking indignantly. He paid no attention to her. Just what am I thinking? What am I, a jealous high school girl? Get a grip, Phoenix.
He shook his head, marveling at his own apparent absurdity, and entered the establishment.
The gift shop was a quaint little place, stocked with the standard variety of overpriced airport market fare. Phoenix let his eyes wander idly over rows of stacked candies, the racks of tourists’ clothes, the stuffed animals with hearts painted on their stomachs--Miles would probably hit me in the face if I dared, no matter how priceless it might be--and wandered until his feet gave pause before a shelf bearing a small selection of action figures and other assorted television memorabilia. Naturally, the most popular children’s hero of the age amongst them.
The models of the Steel Samurai themselves were identical to each other; they differed in color and in the signs attached proudly to their raised left hands, for a variety of occasions. Happy Birthday. Get Well Soon. Cheering For You. Welcome Back. Welcome Home.
If Maya were here, she’d be going into seizures right now. And make me buy them all while she was at it.
He smiled internally at that. Stuffing his hands in the pockets of his coat, he could hear her voice ringing out next to him in perfect clarity in spite of her absence: We obviously need to be prepared for all occasions, Nick! They say good PR is the key to operating a successful law firm, you know? And nobody offers better PR than the hero of Neo Olde Tokyo!
Phoenix shook his head again. Maya’s verdict was basically a given. And he knew that for some reason, Miles held similar fondness for the heroic presence of the Steel Samurai, though he tried to keep it muted in public for the sake of his dignity--which was frankly even more incomprehensible than the Fey clan’s collective brand of obsession. Still, as far as gifts went, it was difficult for him to forget the particular glimmer in his eyes--that he had never seen before and had since never managed to recapture--when Maya had shoved her Limited Edition Complete Series Collection against his chest.
Come to think of it, the feeling back then had been similar to the feeling he still hadn’t succeeded in completely alleviating now.
He frowned, inspecting the selection again, and tugged forward the two that offered the variation in greetings of Welcome. His hand lingered between the two figures, and he furrowed his brow, briefly--before decisively closing his fingers around the one with the sign that bore Home.
He found it more depressing than anything that he could probably list off a dozen of the little figure’s signature attacks, courtesy of Maya and her weekend marathons. After making the purchase, he fiddled with its miniature arms, adjusting the spear to a more dashing sort of battle stance--the sort that he imagined would meet her high standards--before shoving it back into the plastic bag next to the receipt.
The voice behind him rang out like a gunshot. “And what is that supposed to be?”
Phoenix turned, and jumped at the sheer proximity of her angry scowl. She followed me into the store? Oh, give me a--
He forced himself to calm down. It would not do to have himself landed with a bill for whip-destroyed merchandise on top of everything else by deliberately escalating this confrontation.
“It’s a homecoming gift,” he explained, tersely, slowly, as though she were a child slow on the uptake. The corners of her mouth twitched. “You know. The kind people give others as a welcoming present. We do that. It’s the nice thing to do.”
The bag fell from where it hung over his elbow as the crack of the whip sliced through its handles. Phoenix barely managed to catch it before it hit the floor and under the feet of a stampede of harassed travelers. The shopkeeper squealed and ducked from the force of it, despite being clear on the other side of the room.
“Ridiculous,” Franziska said, the ends of the whip stretched between both hands. “You’re a more pathetic man than even I had presumed you to be, Mr. Phoenix Wright. If you want to buy yourself toys to play with, keep them to yourself, rather than forcing on those better off left alone from your childish endeavors!”
“My childish--hey, I don’t even like the show, I was just--it’s Miles who--”
She cut him off with another crack of the whip. He flinched back. That one had struck dangerously close to his face--he was pushing his luck as it is, he could see, simply by existing. When it came to Franziska von Karma, this was not exactly without precedent.
“Just how old do you think he is?” she asked. “Nine?”
Miles, no. Certain other people, on the other hand…
He sighed, straightened, and ran his fingers through his hair as she continued to rant. Maybe if he walked fast enough, he could lose her--no, he was fooling himself. She’d gone through the trouble of tracking him across countries when she had taken issue with him before, so a crowded airport probably wasn’t even worth considering an obstacle. When Maya thought he was implicitly betraying the honor of the Steel Samurai, or something similar, he found he could usually make it through intact by nodding and pretending to pay attention while actually musing about the dynamics of the Union Jack or something comparatively fascinating--but he had a sinking feeling the girl next to him now would not fall for the same trick.
He strode out of the store, considering his options--Franziska’s voice still harping on at his back regarding his clear belittlement of her brother and how he was shamelessly encouraging his vices--and figured if nothing else surely she would lose her voice from the sheer volume of yammering eventually. If he could just manage the endurance to wait it out. He didn't bother getting his hopes up.
---
Twenty-two minutes, fourteen seconds later:
This is ridiculous.
The shopping bag was tucked safely under Phoenix’s arm as he leaned against the wall--during his excursion someone had jumped upon the chance to occupy his empty chair. He had a magazine open in front of his face--he’d grabbed it from a stand without really bothering to check its cover and found himself reviewing an assortment of makeup brands and glittering fashion accessories--but it wasn’t like he could have read it anyway, given the nonstop din next to his ear. Something about fools and immaturity and the mentally challenged and a nineteen year old girl’s desperate, desperate and very apparent need for a thesaurus.
He turned a page of the magazine.
One gloved hand, apparently fed up with his stonewalling (twenty-three minutes and counting), slammed against the wall to the side of his head, and the other gripped tightly around his forearm, preventing him from further escape--whether through movement or the distractions of women’s fashion. Phoenix grit his teeth, resisting the urge to lift the magazine as a physical barrier between both of their faces.
“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, Mr. Phoenix Wright! I’m not done with our conversation!”
Oh, but trust me, I am.
“Okay.” Let’s review what we’ve established through this little talk. “So we’ve established that my tastes are horrible, I understand, I get it. The words, I comprehend them.” He met her gaze for the first time since he had left the store. “He can tell me himself how awful it is and throw it away at first chance he gets. So why don’t you get him one of your own, since you’re such an expert on what’s best for him?”
She went very quiet all of a sudden, her bangs falling over her eyes as momentarily she bowed her head. Phoenix might have been relieved if her grip around his arm didn’t suddenly become vice-like. When she spoke again, her voice was very low, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
“You said something earlier,” she said, “about ‘being there’. As though you were under the impression that this made you better. Didn’t you, Mr. Phoenix Wright. I heard you correctly, didn’t I.”
“Did I?” he said. It took some effort to make himself sound noncommittal. He just wanted feeling back in his arm. The pins and needles were really starting to get to him. “I don’t really remember.”
“How laughable.” Her lip curled. “How pathetic.”
“Yeah,” he said, and now he could no longer suppress the irritation from seeping into his voice--the insults weren’t anything he wasn‘t able to deal with, especially from Franziska von Karma, but the sheer repetition was getting to remind him somewhat of the singular experience of repeatedly smashing his head against a layer of solid brick wall. “That’s me, all right.” Now can we move on?
“Are you that blind? Must I spell it out for you, so it sinks into that thick head of yours? You are the problem,” she said, and Phoenix got the feeling that she had been waiting to tell him this for a long, long time. “You always were. This juvenile little trinket of yours does so much to prove my point. What he needs now is not these ridiculous distractions. This is not all there is, you’re perfectly aware. The phone calls. The letters. You hang onto him when you know full well he has better things to commit his time and attention towards. But it’s always been that way, hasn’t it? For all you claim to care, one would think you would respect him enough to honor his dedication towards upholding the perfection in his work.”
And we’re back to ‘perfection’, are we. I don’t think I’ve ever hated a word and everything it represented more in my life.
But she wasn’t really talking to a person named Phoenix Wright anymore. That much was obvious.
“Look,” he said. “I trust Miles. If I was as much of a bother to him as you seem to think I am, he would let me know.” He wasn’t sure why he felt the need to add it, but he did: “And Miles trusts me, too.”
“Misplaced trust, I’d say.”
At least she doesn’t deny it. That’s a step up, I suppose.
“I guess,” he said, flat, “that you’re entitled to your opinion.”
“My opinion?” She sounded outright offended, as though he had dared to fling the filthiest of curses imaginable at her. The absurdity of this encounter--all over a tiny plastic model of the Steel Samurai--struck Phoenix, and he bit back the urge to laugh, as he suspected it would have been a fatal mistake. “Do you know who I am, Mr. Phoenix Wright? Miles Edgeworth is my little brother! I am entitled to speak on what is best from him. I’m the one who knows him best of anyone.”
Phoenix stopped, staring at her in disbelief. If he wasn’t in quite a degree of pain, he was fairly certain his jaw would have fallen open at the sheer audacity of what she just said.
Does she even know what she’s saying? There’s no way.
Every sensible cell in his body told him to let it go, that there would be no swaying her from her apparent delusion--but he spoke anyway. Something in him was not willing to let this, amongst every other accusation and insult and entitlement she had hurled at him, go.
“Even if you say that, you didn’t know him back then, though.” It was a plain statement of fact. “Before he moved in with you and your father. What he was like before--who he really is.” He paused. “Maybe you ought to give more consideration to that and what Miles wants, not what you think he should want.”
He could tell immediately that he had stepped on a landmine. Her eyes widened, the narrowed into slits--she stepped back, releasing him, and her hand flew to her side where her whip was holstered.
He expected the crack of the whip against his face and he threw his hands in front of him defensively, squeezing his eyes shut. A moment passed, however, and he tentatively opened one to find that she had flung the familiar weapon to the ground at his feet in rage, face flushed, strands of gray hair strewn about her face.
“What do you know?” she demanded, and there was a tremor in her voice Phoenix could not remember hearing since the conclusion of Matt Engarde’s trial. “You think you’re one to talk about who he really is? Tell me, then, Mr. Phoenix Wright! What do you know about Miles Edgeworth, or about me, for that matter, since you’re such an apparent authority on the subject? For all your talk--you weren’t there!”
She was outright shouting now, all pretenses of restraint lost. They were attracting stares from passerbys, and Phoenix swallowed, glancing around at the movement of turning heads, but Franziska stepped on his foot, bringing his full attention back squarely on her.
“If this trust between you means so much,” she continued, “where were you? Where were you when Papa barred us from meals for so much as a single error in our work? Where we you in the sleepless nights memorizing line by exact line of our lessons? Where were you every time I was the one who had to bring him back to his senses every time an earthquake struck around us? Well, Mr. Phoenix Wright? Answer me!” She slammed the flat of her hand against the wall again. The impact of it rung out against his ear. “Answer!”
He answered in stunned silence.
Phoenix found himself wishing that she had just stuck with the whip. It would have stung far less.
It was true that Miles had never opted to share much of his years in the von Karma household with him. He could remember trying to bring it up only once or twice--and quickly dropped the subject when Miles had unequivocally, and immediately, shut him out. It was a period of his life that Phoenix could only define to himself in conjecture. But nonetheless, this--
“The answer,” she continued, and her eyes bore into his, “is that you weren’t. Who Miles is? What he really wants? Don’t make me laugh. You’re as ignorant of any of those things as any of these foolish simpletons passing us by in this airport. You were never there. Not when it really mattered.”
His mind raced, frozen, sick--it wasn’t my fault, how could you possibly blame me for--I’ve always done whatever I could. There wasn’t any…
She stared at him, livid, a sick triumph captured in the trembling of her lower lip and the glassy sheen about her eyes that reflected his own stunned expression back at him. It made him nauseous to look at. He pushed her back, finally giving himself room to move and breathe.
“You know what?” he said, finally. “Fine.”
He pulled the present out of the bag in disgust, hurled it down the nearest garbage can, and walked away, from it and from her, not looking back. There was no point.
---
Though she had marked herself triumphant, Franziska von Karma found little to savor in her victory over Phoenix Wright, who had blended into the crowd to sulk alone. Something about it tasted bitter and ashen in her mouth.
Her throat still burned, and not just from the strain of yelling and lecturing at a mentally challenged man for the past thirty minutes. She bent over and picked up her whip where she had thrown it, grateful that the bustle of the crowd--dissolving around her once again now that the dispute had been settled--was more than enough to cover up the sound of a single sniff amongst hundreds of other meaningless noises.
She pulled herself back up by bracing her hands against the open garbage can Phoenix Wright had tossed the ridiculous action figure down, where it was already stained with mustard and other condiments from discarded foodstuffs. The sign of Welcome Home was obscured by a plastic wrapper. Franziska could not help but be pulled in by the gravity of it; her line of sight drawn down to its crude, grotesquely colored shape.
It was a joke; a blatant exercise in the cheapest and most base of craftsmanship. She could see where the paint was chipping from the uniform, the way the spear was imperfectly aligned with the body. To offer it in earnest to anyone would have been an insult.
But amongst all of those imperfections, she could also still see the ribbon it had been haphazardly wrapped in--bright red and strewn over the edge of the canister, brushing against the sides of her thumbs.
She exhaled, slowly. Her head was beginning to clear from the fury Phoenix Wright had brought--as he always did--onto her senses.
It would have been all right; she would have remained secure in her own self-righteousness, if not for the red and everything it represented in her memory.
--letters stacks of them tied together with red string--string fragile and yet a connection to the outside she had never had how she had hated him for it how she wished he would just throw them all away but he never did how close she had come to sneaking into his room to burn them all herself--
And she knew, now, who had been responsible.
--lingering over each of them opening them closing them looking to the outside wondering about the someone waiting and trying and reaching she saw him smile a smile he had never smiled for her it was different and she hated it and hated herself for being glad when he denied them no matter how they made him smile and sealed them together away from him away from her in red--
Setting them aside, pushing them away, erasing that hint of a nostalgic smile. Because surely he would give up by the next week. By the next. By the next. The stacks continued to grow, matching futility with futility.
She knew what she had said was true. Phoenix Wright, no matter how he tried, no matter what he tried to tell himself, had never been there.
But there were so many times when she had wondered if Miles Edgeworth had ever truly been there, either. When she wondered about the gaps left behind as he tossed away every token his old friend had sent and pretended that they hadn’t mattered to him.
Her fists clenched, trying, once again, to relocate Phoenix Wright.
It felt as though it was the only thing she had ever done, for as long as she had known and tried to play big sister to Miles.
I hate it.
She hated him for being able to walk into the store without shame and purchase such a silly trinket. As though it were so easy. It was infuriating--as infuriating as reading the letters containing the words and sentiments of concern and love she was never able to form herself, obscured by pride and the lingering rules of what it meant to be a von Karma.
She hated him for being able to arrive early and wait, for hours, even when Miles Edgeworth had failed to explicitly ask him to. As though it were the most natural thing in the world. As though it was simply what was done.
And she hated him for being swayed, so easily, as easily as shattering glass, into thinking none of those things mattered.
Franziska cursed under her breath, bitter and full of hate, brimming with it--as she cut through the crowd in search of him, wiping the mustard stain off of the sleeve she had used to reach back into the garbage can.
---
Phoenix had settled back against the wall closest to the glowing schedule. He glanced back at it--habit, by now, and refreshing in its relative solitude--and blinked to realize that Miles’s plane was scheduled to come in at any minute now. The entirety of the remaining hour had somehow slipped by in his flurry of anger and hurt and he hadn’t even noticed it. The numbers seemed strangely blurry, under the force of the pounding headache he had been nursing since he had left Franziska.
Stupid. I should never have risen to her bait.
He closed his eyes, pressing the palms of his left hand against his temple. It wasn’t too late; he thought, Miles had not arrived yet and he could still turn around and leave this airport, call Larry or someone else to take him home, and save himself the trouble of justifying his extraneous presence. It wasn’t as though he was needed.
His thoughts kept coming back to that in spite of his best efforts, and it surrounded him in a despairing sort of haze. But somehow, he still found himself disinclined to leave--even after everything--even knowing full well how foolish it was.
Because when it came down to everything---
I still want to see him.
His eyes widened at the burst of sound that disrupted his rambling thoughts; a cellphone was ringing at his side. It was drawn from his pocket and thrown against his ear like a trained reflex.
“Miles! Are you there?”
Silence. Not even a ringtone. He blinked, shaking his phone, tapping the screen with his curled index finger--don’t tell me the stupid thing’s busted again--when he heard Franziska’s voice next to him, speaking matter-of-factly into her own phone.
“I see. Yes. I’m waiting outside. Hurry up; I’m quite sick of waiting with this crowd of fools as it is.”
Realization slowly dawned upon Phoenix, and he pocketed his phone in an embarrassed silence. The ringtone hadn’t even been his; Franziska likely wouldn’t be caught dead with the Steel Samurai theme song associated with any of her possessions--and he had still jumped on it like a dog chasing its own tail. Like so many other things.
But he had to admit to himself that there was a bitter disappointment blooming in his chest alongside his self-conscious realization of his own foolishness. It was stupid, he knew, Miles couldn’t have known that Phoenix had maneuvered his way through three different bus routes and fought his way through holiday crowds and spent money he frankly couldn’t afford on an overpriced homecoming gift, waiting alongside his precious sister and having stupid arguments about who knew him better and who had the right to have a say over what he wanted.
But he couldn’t help but feel that a choice had just been made, regardless.
But it makes sense, doesn’t it.
He stepped back.
Franziska eyed him, closing her phone with a decisive snap. Her mouth was drawn in a thin, questioning line. Behind her, Phoenix saw that waves of people were beginning to emerge, exhausted and blinking sleepily from the long flight.
“What are you waiting for?” Phoenix had meant for the words to sound indifferent, but they sounded small and petty even to his own ears. “Didn’t you say you’d waited long enough?”
Four years of waiting. No. Fifteen. More than that…
Maybe I’ve spent my whole life waiting.
She snorted disdainfully with a roll of her eyes, and turned her back to him to take several decisive steps forward. He lost sight of her quickly in the crowd, and found he lacked any particular desire to catch a good view of the teary union between siblings anyway. It was, after all, something he could never really understand and hadn’t ever been a part of.
But he gave a yelp when he felt fingers clamp like steel along his wrist, nearly tripping over himself as he was pulled forward; Franziska’s eyes flashed dangerously and bid him to keep his mouth shut lest he suffer pain. He felt her slip something in his hands, but he didn’t bother looking down to see what it was; as she dragged him along, Phoenix had given a start in realization--he thought he might have caught sight of Miles’s back, beyond her small frame, half-turned away from them with unmistakable pink--who else would have the damn thing in pink?--suitcase at his side.
“Stupid, hopeless fool,” Franziska snapped, and Phoenix winced as she backhanded him for his perceived lack of cooperation, making his movements clumsy and his feet slower than her standards allowed. His fingers tightened around whatever she had given him, and vaguely realized he could feel the engraved letters of home pressed against his skin.
But he was still absorbed in watching Miles, who turned, and raised his hand with a mildly surprised sort of half-smile as they both moved closer to greet him together.